I wake around mid-morning the next day, Arsen still sleeping soundly beside me. Only a sliver of pale light filters through the blackout curtains on the windows. The house is quiet, most everyone else asleep for the day. I'm not used to the nocturnal schedule yet and my circadian rhythm still thinks now is the time to be awake. I yawn and slip out of bed, finding clothes and dressing quietly. As long as I'm awake anyway, I might as well get some research in.

I’d spotted the compound's library the other day and frankly I've been waiting for an opportunity to raid it since. They've been holding these stupid Provokar challenges for centuries, so there's bound to be some records about them. Tips that will help me make sure I win my own hand.

The library is in its own small building across the gardens. Thankfully the cobble stone path to it is covered. Rain in the pacific north west is just par for the course, and today, it’s drizzling. The building is a beautiful gothic revival construction complete with an unnecessary amount of finicky little spires and ornate windows with stained glass windows. Inside, the hush is almost reverent, like entering a church. The heavy oak shelves, deep and tall, with cabineted bottoms and carved lacework on top, resemble pews and confessionals arranged in a maze across the library’s stonework floor.

I expected to be alone, coming at this time of the day. But I've only been inside a minute when I spot someone else. Two men in black cassocks, like priests, appear from between the shelves, both carrying books and talking quietly. They pause when they see me and the younger of the two smiles, taking a hand off the books to wave.

"How unusual!" he says. "We don't usually get visitors at this hour. Do we, Elder Smythe?"

Elder Smythe grunts irritably. And I try to hold back my smile at the younger man’s enthusiasm and his older counterparts’ grumpy demeanor. He looks to be in his early fifties but well-aged, dignified, with salt and pepper hair and a thunderous frown. His companion is only a little younger and reminds me of the teacher I'd had a crush on in high school. He has a kind, responsible face and chestnut hair touched with silver at the temples.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting anything," I say, holding my hands up to prove I'm harmless. "I was hoping to find some information on The Provokar? Any tips on where to start looking?"

"Ah, yes." The younger man clears his throat, smiling though he looks a bit embarrassed. "We did hear something about that."

Oh, I’m sure they did. Vampire covens, I’m learning, gossip at the speed of light.

"What Elder Farrow means is that the entire compound has heard," Elder Smythe says with a scoff. "How you spit in the face of tradition with that ridiculous display."

Oh Jesus, here we go. Another stodgy vampire rooted in tradition. "I don't think wanting to have some say in my own future is ridiculous," I reply, defensive.

"We'd be pleased to help you find what you need," Elder Farrow says quickly, stepping in front of Smythe. "As the newest member of our coven it's good that you're taking an interest in our history."

"I'm not part of your coven yet," I point out.

"Well, still," Elder Farrow laughs a little.

“Yeah, I know. Still.” I rub at the back of my neck, working out the knots of tension there. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. Lot of things happening lately.” I shrug, offering an apologetic smile.

"I understand. We are sworn to protect, preserve and share the knowledge in these halls. Even to an undeclared free agent like yourself." Farrow replies.

"If I don't put these books down soon I am going to preserve and share some choice words about your mother," Elder Smythe gripes with a glare at Farrow. I giggle, quickly covering my mouth to hide it when Smythe’s shrewd gaze falls on me.

I follow the two men as they hurry away through the shelves to a nearby clearing where several large wooden tables are arranged for studying. Elder Smythe sighs with relief as he dumps his stack of books on one and flops into a chair. He pulls out a pair of small glasses, drags an open ledger already on the table towards him, then grabs the first book off the top of the stack and sets to work notating something about it in the ledger.

He seems to have already completely forgotten my presence. Elder Farrow puts down his books and then gestures for me to follow him again.

"Forgive Elder Smythe," he says. "He has a fifteenth century mind. Literally. Turned in 1492, I believe. Of course, that's no excuse, but we Elders occasionally have some difficulty keeping up with the changing world.”

“Yeah, I could see that.” I hustle after the fast-moving Elder. He moves around stacks of books without even looking at them, his attention on me as he continues talking. How he doesn’t fall flat on his face, I’ll never know.

“Elder Freeman has been begging us to upgrade to a digital card catalog for a decade but the others won't have it. It took them long enough to accept the Dewey Decimal system. Though, in all fairness, computers still give me the shivers, so I probably wouldn't use it if we had it.”

I nod, biting my lip to keep from laughing at his old turn of phrase. Computers give him shivers. I can only imagine what a peek inside my lab would be like for him. Probably something out of a nightmare.

“Elder Garret once had an idea about keeping birds trained to retrieve and reshelf the books. Ravens, most likely. Only things big and smart enough. But then Elder Ulysses brought up who would be responsible for cleaning up after the birds and that argument lasted three months and led to Elder Tevan retiring to his tomb for the next hundred years and we never did get any birds. Oh, this is in the wrong section. That's the last time we let Elder Timothy handle returns alone." He rambles on, and I absorb everything he’s saying. Sounds like these Elders bicker like a bunch of old ladies in a knitting circle. It’s charming.

As Elder Farrow chatters on he leads me through the library, pulling books from the shelves, frequently without looking, or with only the most cursory of glances. I suppose after working in the same library for hundreds of years you get to know it pretty well.

"You know what happened the last time he put a whole collection on Baetal formal etiquette in the zoological section?" Elder Farrow whispers in outrage.

I couldn't help a small laugh. I shake my head. “No, tell me.”

"He thought it an amusing joke," the Elder continues, "Until we were hosting a dinner for the Baetal prince and insulted him with an inappropriate table setting. I haven't seen a dinner that disastrous since the Samhain dinner that Elder Rothbart tried to cook a whole roast pig. Elder Israel did not appreciate that, and let Elder Rothbart know it, with such enthusiasm and at such length that the neglected pig caught fire and burned down the kitchen.”

“Oh no. I hope no one was hurt.”

Farrow waves me off. “We had to use the kitchen in the main house until it was repaired and Elder Corbin, who does most of the cooking for the Elders, was all out of sorts because he's never worked in a modern kitchen with microwaves and running water and such and I'll tell you we ordered a lot of pizzas those days..."

His ability to jump from topic to topic with zero input from me was kind of amazing and, to be honest, a relief. I was too tired and stressed to have complicated conversations right now. He babbled on in an endless stream-of-consciousness. His dissertation on the daily lives of the Elders and I tuned him out, concerned about the giant growing pile of books in his arms. Eventually he led me back to the tables.

"These should get you started," he said, setting them down on an open table. "And Elder Smythe and I will be here working on inventory if you require any assistance."

“Oh thank you. I could have gotten these if you’d just have told me where to get them.”

"Hmph." Elder Smythe didn't even look up from his book. "If you ask me, a girl like you could be put to much better use elsewhere."

"Excuse me," I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Elder Farrow sighs heavily. "Don't listen to him," he says, holding up a hand to stop Elder Smythe's reply. "He hasn't had his coffee yet."

Elder Farrow fetches a big pot of strong dark coffee and Elder Smythe's grumbling decreases somewhat. He pours a cup for me as well and I settle down at the heavy wooden table to start reading.

It's not exactly thrilling stuff. You would think dramatic duals with love on the line would make for exciting reading. But vampire scholars and historians appeared to be a particularly dry kind of person, less interested in the human drama than cataloguing tedious material details, like exhaustive lists of attendants, dense genealogies on the competitors, and infuriatingly specific accounts of the costs expended and supplies acquired for the ceremony and following celebrations. They were apparently very gaudy affairs at one point.

"Ah, I remember that one," Elder Farrow says, reading the page I'm on over my shoulder as he refills my coffee. "What a party! Smythe was there too. Elder Smythe, remember when Redmond and Hawthorne fought over Jocasta the Red? Ah, she was glorious. Both her suitors had already fought off a dozen others before they even reached the arena."

"What happened?" I ask, closing the book. A firsthand account is bound to be better than reading it.

"Oh it was phenomenal," Farrow says with a sigh. "Three were six whole roast geese at the banquet. The entire court was in attendance, and the prince of Hawthorne's clan, plus his court- we could hardly pack them all in!"

I try to hide my frustration and quietly wonder if Farrow was responsible for writing this book. Probably was considering the long-winded descriptions matched his jabbering.

"What about the actual challenge?" I ask, interrupting his rapturous description of the silverware. "What happened during the fight?"

"Well, there are three parts to such challenges," Elder Farrow says, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "The first contest is chosen by whoever accepted the challenge. Redmond, I believe, chose archery, at which he was renowned. It's rare for the challenged to not win the first contest, but Hawthorne was determined to sweep the entire challenge. He won it by a hair and with extreme effort, which put him at something of a disadvantage for the second challenge. Traditionally, the second contest is determined by the lady in dispute, who will naturally choose a contest which favors the man she prefers. So, you see, she does get some say!"

"Barely," I mutter. "So it's best two out of three?"

"Not always," Elder Farrow says with an ambiguous gesture. "Jocasta favored Hawthorne and so the second contest was fencing- his preferred form. But he'd overextended himself in the first contest and Redmond had been practicing fencing in secret, anticipating Jocasta's choice. Hawthorne still took the victory, but only just."

"So then he won?" I ask, becoming confused. But Elder Farrow shakes his head. I tap my fingers against the table to keep from shouting at him to get to the damn point.

"Regardless of who wins the first two contests, the challenges always proceed to the third. A traditional duel. Teeth and claws only is standard, though it's not unheard of to use weapons if the duelists agree on one. Now, generally, the duel is not to the death. A man could win the duel by knock out and, if he lost the previous two contests, still lose the challenge. But, while the goal is not to kill your competitor, it is acceptable to do so. And if you have lost the previous two challenges, it is your only chance at victory.”

“Wait, so even if you win the first two challenges and you lose the third, you lose no matter what? What is the point of the first two challenges then?” Why is this so freaking complicated? They had it right in the old west. Stand back to back with your adversary, walk ten paces, turn and first one to pull the trigger wins. Simple. Done.

“Ah, wait for it. As it was with Redmond and Hawthorne. Foolish Hawthorne thought the battle was won because he'd taken the previous two contests. He did not believe his rival would go for the kill, and so carelessly exhausted himself before the duel. He was in no shape to defend his life when the time came, and Redmond tore his throat out."

I grimace imagining it, and the results for poor Jocasta. Eternity with the man who murdered the guy you were in love with. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? I shake my head to clear it.

"Have there been any other women challengers?" I ask.

"A few," Elder Farrow confirms. "I was present when Genevieve of Whitehall fought Good woman Sarah for Thomas D'arte. I wasn't allowed to actually observe, of course. To preserve the lady's modesty attendance was restricted to women. But I did attend the banquet when Sarah emerged victorious. It was quite a scandal for the Whitehalls and lauded as a wonderful love story. Although I am told Thomas's ardor for Sarah was somewhat dampened by all the new scars... Ah, that is to say, there have been female challengers, but none competing for their own honor."

Well shit. I guess someone has to be first. I was just hoping that I’d have something as a point of reference for what’s to come.

"What about the contests?" I ask. "What kind of things do people choose for the first two?"

"Usually a classical sport of some kind," Elder Farrow says with a smile. "They go in and out of style. For a while it was jousting, then discus throwing, then curling... Ah, but it can be anything the competitors choose, really. Genevieve chose ballroom dancing for her first contest. Sarah lost that one rather badly. But in the second contest Thomas chose weaving. Genevieve had done nothing but needlepoint in her life. She didn't even know how to operate a loom. Sarah humiliated her." Farrow shrugs carelessly.

"Are there any limitations?" I ask, my mind already running away with several ideas.

"Only common-sense ones," Farrow replies. "It must be something that can be practically achieved by two contestants in a reasonable amount of time and produce a result that can be measured to determine a clear winner. Other than that, the sky’s the limit. I saw one memorable Provokar where the man challenged chose sword swallowing as the first contest! Professional circus performer, you know. One of the only times I know of that never went to a duel."

"Why?" I ask, curious. "Did the challenger back out?"

"Oh no," Farrow says with a chuckle. "That would have been humiliating. He tried to swallow the sword, which went predictably, disastrously wrong. Unfortunately for him, he was not aware that his rival used blades coated in silver nitrate, for added drama. He died quite spectacularly. There was some dispute about whether this made his rival the winner, considering the unusual circumstances. Some even accused him of cheating by coating his blades that way, which would have of course rendered his victory void. But he had swallowed the same sword as the challenger and could prove he used those very blades in all his shows, so the judges could not find fault."

I sat back, sipping my coffee as I consider what I'd learned. From what I'd read and Elder Farrow's accounts, death was possible in any round but usually only occurred during the final duel. Killing your opponent was discouraged, but still seemed to happen about a third of the time, which worried me deeply.

Arsen and Niko did not like each other. And I didn't really want to see either of them killed, even if Niko was an inflamed asshole most of the time. But presumably I'll be there during the final duel as well and I'll be able to keep things from getting lethal.

What matters more is winning the first two challenges. I'll have to figure out what Arsen is choosing for the first contest and prepare for that. But hopefully I’ll be choosing the second. I need to choose something I'll definitely win, and which neither of them will have a chance at. Which isn't going to be easy. I'm probably not going to get anyone to agree to a contest of searching for protein matches with a microscope.

I grab another book and settle deeper into my chair to continue studying. I'll figure something out. No matter what Arsen says, even if I end up staying with him in the end anyway, this is going to be my choice. I'm going to win this thing even if it kills me. Literally or figuratively.

“You know,” Elder Farrow says quietly, catching my eye. “It still may be wiser for you to withdraw from this.”

I give him a harsh look and he holds up his hands in surrender.

“I’m not suggesting you aren’t right to want a say in the result,” he says quickly. “Just that I worry about the result if you win. If you’re victorious, if you refuse both of them and their clans, will you remain unaligned?”

I shrug, not quite certain how to put my answer in a way that he’d understand.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Choosing who to be with for the rest of my eternal life is a big decision. Would it be so awful to just stay a free agent for a while until I’m sure?”

“Not at all,” Elder Farrow says, expression solemn. “But it is a choice. And if you choose to remain unaligned, that will have consequences. Being part of the clans, it isn’t just about tradition. It’s about shared history, shared knowledge and resources. It’s about proving that just because we’re no longer human doesn’t mean we’re no longer part of a society. It’s about safety in numbers. Being all on your own… Really and truly isolated in the way you only can be when humanity has abandoned you and you’ve turned your back on your own kind… Being that alone is dangerous.”

He turns away, going back to his inventory, but I continue to turn his words over in my mind for a long time afterwards. I still don’t really know what’s out there in this new world where vampires are real and anything is possible.

But, do I really want to explore the possibilities alone?